


Never a dull morning

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humour, Violence Against Toasters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-09
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-14 11:55:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All John wants is some bloody toast. Is that too much to ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never a dull morning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Tag Frenzy: Violence Against Toasters](http://tagfrenzy.tumblr.com/post/52580483741/time-to-be-creative) challenge. Thanks to dee for the super-speedy SPAG.
> 
> *One toaster was harmed in the writing of this story.

Blearily, John rubs his eyes and shoves the last two slices of bread into the toaster. He's doing it more by feel than by sight, his eyes still sticky with sleep. He's about to push the button down when a familiar presence looms up behind him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, John." Sherlock's hand reaches around and settles on John's before he can push it, a bony tentacle obstructing his progress.

Scowling, John pulls his hand away and turns around, glaring up at Sherlock with as much force as he can muster in his sleepy state.

"What, for once you want the toast? Well for once, I honestly don't care, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson made some of that blackberry jam I enjoy so much and I was really looking forward to having it this morning."

The look on Sherlock's face is utterly inscrutable as he shrugs and steps away. Something about his passivity sets of warning bells in John's head. Alarmed, he spins around and yanks the bread out of the slots, but it's too late. They're dripping. Dripping with something green and entirely unrecognisable.

Groaning, John glares yet again at Sherlock, who looks utterly unrepentant. "It was an experiment."

"Of course it bloody was. Just once, Sherlock. Just one fucking time, I would like something in this kitchen to stay food-safe. Is that too much to ask, you damnable arse?"

Sherlock says nothing, which pretty much answers John's question. In the negative. John suspects Sherlock is attempting to avoid an argument, but somehow it's just making John angrier.

"Answer me, damn it." Before he's aware of it, he's slammed his hand down hard on the counter, right by Sherlock's hip. Sherlock merely looks down at the hand as if it's a new and interesting variable in a puzzle, and John loses whatever control over his temper he had left.

"Fucking hell! God damn it, Sherlock! I am fucking fed up!"

Completely infuriated by this point, John grabs the toaster and yanks it violently, tugging the plug out of the socket. Fuming, he storms down the stairs and grabs his cane, which is still in the umbrella stand by the door, eagerly awaiting the day when it will be useful again. Its time has come.

John marches down the stairs loud enough to bring a concerned Mrs. Hudson to her door. He ignores her, heading straight for the front door. She looks questioningly at Sherlock, who merely shrugs.

Kicking the door open, John continues his inexorable march forward, stopping when he reaches the no-parking zone right in front of the door. He places the toaster on the ground carefully, almost reverently. He takes two breaths to calm and steady himself, and then he lets loose.

He brings the handle of the cane down violently, revelling in the satisfying, reverberating clang the thick plastic makes as it smashes into the aluminium side of the toaster. Again, and again, he brings his improvised weapon down on his offending target with the accuracy befitting his rank. Eventually, it crumples under the assault, and John feels his rage dissipate. He gives it a few more half-hearted jabs with the end of the cane, but the satisfaction is gone.

He takes in his surroundings, eyes going wide. It's as though he's just suddenly become aware of the fact that he's standing outside, in public - in his pyjama bottoms no less - demolishing a toaster with a cane. The laughter bubbles up inside him, and he nearly manages to contain it until he turns around and sees Sherlock leaning against the front door in all his lanky glory, grinning back at him.

"Feel better, John?"

The chuckles spill out, unbidden, and suddenly John feels ten pounds lighter. He rolls his eyes and grins back at Sherlock, managing to choke out a response between fits of giggles. "Oh, loads, thanks. But I think we might need a new toaster."

"I could have told you that earlier this morning."

"Go inside, you ridiculous man."

"Oh, I'm ridiculous? I'm not the one who's about to be charged with deadly assault on a kitchen appliance."

John's gaze narrows playfully. "Watch it, you, or that's not all I'll be charged with." Still laughing, he prods Sherlock in the bum with the end of his cane. Relenting, Sherlock opens the door, where they're greeted to the sight of Mrs. Hudson, who is valiantly attempting to look stern and disapproving, but failing miserably.

"Oh boys. What am I ever going to do with you?"


End file.
